


and then letting go

by peredhils



Category: Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, M/M, set during the banquet in the prologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27868189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peredhils/pseuds/peredhils
Summary: “Did you love your father, Thorfinn?”—a moment of respite.
Relationships: Canute/Thorfinn (Vinland Saga)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	and then letting go

**Author's Note:**

> another zine piece! written for [somewhere not here](https://twitter.com/vinlandsagazine), a vinland saga zine. thank you so much! it was a joy.

The feast does not die down until dawn is edging the horizon, but Thorfinn finds him long before that. 

As far as Canute had been aware, Thorfinn was out sulking in the cold, trying to find a way to fight with his broken arm. Had he not been at the feast, he would have gone out in search of him, a habit that formed after Ragnar died. 

With Askeladd occupied with what appeared to be a less than thrilling exchange with Gunnar, Thorfinn comes to Canute, rabbit in hand. 

“What’s this?” Canute asks, gesturing with his horn. 

Thorfinn shifts uncomfortably, glancing to make sure Askeladd had not caught sight. Canute suspects he would never hear the end of it if they’d seen. “A rabbit,” he mutters. When Canute says nothing, he levels him with a look that would prompt jailing from a crueler prince. “Your soup—I was wondering if you would make it again.” 

Canute pauses. “There’s plenty of food here, Thorfinn. You’ve walked into the middle of a feast.” 

“I  _ know _ that. I just—nevermind.” He turns to go, tucking the rabbit back under his arm, but Canute stops him with a hand on his elbow. 

“Don’t,” he says. While they were traveling, after Thorkell, Canute reached out first. Collected him. Changed his dressings and sat him in the carriage. It’s not lost on him that this time, Thorfinn is coming to him. “Come with me.” 

They steal away together, slipping through the throng quietly, until they reach the bustling kitchen. The servants are too busy trying to keep up with the hungry horde in the main hall that they don’t notice Canute among them, gathering a few ingredients into his arms while he points to a pot for Thorfinn to nick.

He feels like a child, sneaking away and hurrying like thieves, although as the prince he knows the servants would part for him had they taken heed and the need for secrecy would be no more. The feeling reminds him of their time before York, when Thorfinn would tease him or shove him when no one else was looking, getting away with riling him up. Every crude remark that roused Canute from his silence had felt like they were taking back a childhood stolen. Little glances, little laughs—things that Canute thinks of, when he tries not to think of anything, and wonders what things would have been like if he and Thorfinn had met as boys. Maybe Thorfinn would have been his bodyguard from childhood, a confidante and trusted one by his side. But Canute does not entertain these thoughts for long. They only lead down a road he cannot walk. 

When they make it to Canute’s quarters, Thorfinn shoulders open the door and makes his way in first, noisily setting down his things. With his arm in such a state, Thorfinn can’t help to light the candles or the hearth, so Canute takes to it all himself. 

The time passes in silence. Canute skins the rabbit on a cloak spread over his desk while Thorfinn carefully cuts the vegetables he’d been able to take from the kitchen. They can hear the feast, still roaring down the hall, as the water comes to a boil and Canute slowly stirs. Under the cover of night, behind Canute’s closed door, Thorfinn removes the bandages from his arm and slides off his coat, a vulnerability Canute will not comment on. His words still carry weight. 

Thorfinn sits reclined against the foot of Canute’s bed. There’s not much light besides the candles and the fire, and it paints Thorfinn in warm colors, his bruised skin like amber. The imprints from his heavy coat line his collarbones and shoulders, the place where the sling cut into his neck is red and swollen. There is only a little shame in the glances Canute steals; he’s stolen many since they’d met. 

When the soup is done, Canute fills a bowl and places it where Thorfinn can reach with his good arm. It’s not his best, not like it had been when he’d first made it on the road with Ragnar’s help, but he likes it just fine. Thorfinn doesn’t say anything, but it brings warmth to his cheeks and he’s on his second bowl before Canute even finishes his first. He thinks of teasing him, of maybe coaxing out of him that he missed Canute’s cooking, enough that not even the feast sufficed, but instead he says:

“Did you love your father, Thorfinn?”

The question surprises Canute as much as it does Thorfinn. He stops with his spoon halfway to his mouth, looking at him, pinched and verging on angry. He always looks at Canute this way unless they’re alone, unless he’s teasing him in front of the others—a smile is rare, except for when he’s calling Canute something disrespectful. They don’t talk of these things—they rarely talk of anything at all. 

“Of course I did,” Thorfinn says eventually, lowering the spoon back into the bowl. “He was a good father,” he continues before realizing he’s offered more than he’d been asked. 

“A good father,” Canute muses. “Tell me, what is that like?” Maybe it’s the drink—he’d had more horns than he’s used to during the feast—or maybe it’s something else, something he doesn’t want to name just yet that makes him want more. 

Thorfinn frowns, defensive now. “You should know! You had Ragnar for longer than I—” He stops himself, swallowing hard. Canute has yet to talk about Ragnar’s death, not really, and he wonders if even after all the years Thorfinn has yet to talk about his father's death, either.

“It must be different, Thorfinn. Ragnar loved me, took care of me, taught me almost all I know. But he was not my father—no matter how much I wished he was—a cold and unignorable fact that I felt every day of my life. For every sunny memory Ragnar gave me there is one my father darkened.” Tired of sitting cross on the floor, Canute crawls to sit beside Thorfinn against the bed. “Knowing your father would rather another man raise you, would rather you be  _ dead _ …” 

Thorfinn turned to face him, their faces close. 

“I can’t remember my father,” Thorfinn admits. “Not as I used to. I would dream about him. And I remember the day he died, I remember his face, the smell of the water and the sound of the arrows hitting his body, the things he told me. But I can’t hear his voice anymore. Or his laughter.” 

Canute remembers what Willibald told him that day in battle. 

“Your father,” he says, haltingly. He wants to get it right. “He loves you, very much.” Canute reaches for Thorfinn, barely touching the back of his good hand. He startles like a wild animal, skittish, knocking the empty bowl of soup over between them. But Canute isn’t afraid. 

On his cheek, he can feel Thorfinn’s heavy breaths as he slides his hand up his arm, wrapping his fingers around Thorfinn’s elbow. 

“What the fuck are you doing, princess?” 

“Hush,” he says. Thorfinn may be angry and sad and lonely—for years, that was all he knew. Canute knows, though, that every man wants kindness, in their heart of hearts. Someday, Thorfinn will find it. Once Askeladd dies, Thorfinn will be lost. There will be no anger or sadness or loneliness left anymore; all will fade. Even this, this small kindness Canute wants so desperately to show him, will be no longer. Despite this, Canute reaches for him anyway, hoping that this is a memory that will come back to Thorfinn once time has passed and he’s had a chance to heal again. 

For a moment, Thorfinn just watches him. Canute feels as if he can see every thought through Thorfinn’s eyes. When the tension drains from Thorfinn’s body, all pretense to the wayside, Canute watches it in the softening of Thorfinn’s gaze upon him. 

He leans forward in a slow show, shoulders dropping, broken arm cradled in his lap. Canute meets him easily, neck bared so Thorfinn may lay his head in the soft space there. They settle together as Canute wraps his arms around Thorfinn’s back, goosebumps spreading from where their bare skin touches. Canute spreads his palms wide over Thorfinn’s back, feeling every inhale.

Thorfinn’s lips brush over his collarbone. The fire is dying down in the hearth, yet the feast rages on. Here, they are quiet, and everything else is background noise. He listens to Thorfinn breathe, feels the beat of his heart under his hands. After a while, Canute rests his chin on Thorfinn’s head, gathering him closer against the growing cold in the room. They’ve tucked the warmth between them, safe in the secret of their embrace.

Neither one of them says a word. There would be no words for it, anyway.

Whatever it is, it cannot be love. Though, Canute thinks, it may be awfully close. 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://lunarfuneral.tumblr.com)


End file.
